Sherlock: A Case Study
by chibiness87
Summary: Or: The Seven Deadly Sins as Experienced by Sherlock Holmes, Rated T for language/mention of drug use. General spoilers. Sherlock/Molly.
1. Ch 1: Pride

**Sherlock: A Case Study, or: The Seven Sins as experienced by Sherlock Holmes**

 **Chapter 1/7: Pride** (Or, He doesn't need her. Until he does.)  
 **Rating: T  
Spoilers: None really... (Y'all know Sherlock's a bit of an addict, right?) Set pre-season 1. **

**Disclaimer: Sherlock belongs to other, much more talented people than me.**

 **A/N:** Hello. This is a bit of a change for me - not just this fandom, but also setting myself a theme target. There will be 7 chapters in all. Most are written, and I aim to update weekly. While each snippet could be read as a stand-alone story in their own right, they are linked. I hope you enjoy.

* * *

I'm sorry 'bout the attitude  
I need to take when I'm with you,  
But no one else would take this shit from me. – Long Day, Matchbox 20

* * *

He strides through the door, a bit more of a spring to his step than the last time she saw him. It makes the worry in her chest ease. The last time she had seen him, he had been moping around the place for days, muttering to himself.

Even the provision of a liver for an experiment without any arguments on her part hadn't quietened him down any.

Eventually, when she had finally gotten the nerve to ask if everything was ok, he'd given her such a look of incomprehension she hadn't dared say anything else.

After two hours of the silent, but fidgeting, treatment, she had gone to get them both a coffee. She had only been out the room for four minutes, but when she returned there was no sign of him.

That had been three weeks ago, and she had heard nothing from him since.

But now, he was back.

"Sherlock."

"Molly."

He barely looks at her before heading over to the microscope he always chooses. Slipping some slides out of a box in his pocket, he drapes his coat and scarf over an unused chair and settles in.

Molly smiles to herself. Whatever it was that had been wrong before seems to have settled.

Turning, she refocuses on her own work.

The quiet lasts for approximately two minutes before she is started by a loud crash from across the room.

"Shit."

"Sherlock? Are you OK?"

She's out of her seat and across the room in a matter of seconds. Her eyes take in the shattered slides on the floor, before the stiff posture of his form gets her attention.

He's too rigid. Too still.

Everything about him is coiled tight like a wound up spring about to be set free.

Everything, that is, except his hands.

They are ever so slightly shaking.

Trembling.

"Sherlock? It's OK. It's…"

Carefully, she lays her own hand over one of his, and his face snaps towards her.

His face has a look unlike she has ever seen on him before. Pale and wide eyed and dear god, there is something so not right with his pupils it actually takes a few seconds for the doctor in her to add up all the pieces.

In little more than a whisper, she asks, "Sherlock? Oh god, what did you _do_?"

He growls at her, standing suddenly, wrenching his arm from her timid grasp.

"Why do you care?" he snarls, slowly backing her towards the wall. It is all she can do to stand upright, so she lets him crowd her. "Why? You're just a stupid girl with a stupid crush and you don't have the first idea what it's like to be me." She feels the wall at her back, convinced he will stop now, but instead he raises his arms, and she finds herself caged between his hot chest and the cold wall.

"You say you know me?" he continues, looking over her in what would have been a searching gaze if he wasn't so out of it. "You don't know the first thing about me. Not about my past, or my family. You don't know how tiring you are. You all are. Idiots. _Morons_. You observe but you don't _see_. So don't stand there and tell me that it's OK, or that you know how I _feel_. You don't have the first fucking idea."

"Sherlock…" Her voice is more timid than she would hope for. But she's afraid.

Not of him. Never _of_ him, but _for_ him. She wonders if he even knows the difference. There is an anger in his words that is directed at something far beyond what she has ever done, she wonders if he is even aware it is _her_ standing before him. Her heart aches for the man so lost before her, she feels a tear begin to form.

"Are you going to cry now? Huh? Little mousy Molly, going to squeak and scurry away and cry?"

There is something in his tone below the anger and the venom that is being flung her way. Not letting the tears fall, she asks, "What did you take?"

"Why do you care?!"

"Because you're my friend!" There is a certainty in her voice that makes him pause, and she watches him carefully as he pushes himself away from the wall (and her).

"Maybe I don't need friends." The anger has gone from his tone now, leaving just a desperately sad man, wilting before her eyes.

She doesn't say anything, just looks at him with tears welling. (Weak. She always feels so weak around him.)

He sees the tears, (of course he does; even high (and oh god _what_ has he taken?) he is still the most observant person she has ever met,) sneers at her, before turning on his heel and storming out of the room.

It is only when she is sure he isn't coming back she lets one tear fall.

Glancing around, she sees he's left his coat and scarf lying abandoned over the chair when he stormed out. It's winter, and while not snowing it is still only 3oC outside, and he's high (and oh god, _what has he taken_?!) and he doesn't have his coat.

With a sigh, she pushes the words thrown at her into a deep box in her mind, pushing it to one side. (If he knew what she did with her memories he might be impressed. Once he's come down.)

Hefting the big coat into her arms, she briefly toys with the idea of shoving it in the first bin she sees. He would expect that.

But she is Molly Hooper.

She is his friend (even when he doesn't deserve it).

She takes his coat to his flat.

A timid knock on the door has his housekeeper/landlady opening it with a flourish. When she sees Molly with the coat she pulls her inside.

"Oh, thank god. I knew something was wrong when he didn't come home with his coat. He's been a nightmare. I can handle the violin at odd times of the night, but the shootings? Go see if you can calm him down will you?"

"I…"

There is too much in her head for her to form a coherent sentence. Violin? Shootings? Sherlock? _What has he TAKEN?!_

"You should see the state of the walls! Weeks, he's been like this. Ever since… He won't eat. Won't speak to me. Just plays and plays and then shoots the wall."

"I uh…" Before she can get much further, she is interrupted by the sound of a door becoming acquainted with a wall at speed.

"Mrs Hudson. Who are you…?" He stops when he sees her standing there. Before she can say anything, he has beaten her to it. "Molly."

His face pales, and he shuffles backwards, clearly intending to go back inside. But his feet get caught in the dressing gown he is wearing and he stumbles.

Without thinking, Molly rushes up the stairs, getting to the top just as Sherlock lands in an undignified heap on the floor.

"Are you OK?" She bends over to help him up, trying to hide the look of hurt when he pushes her arm away.

"Molly?"

"Sherlock." This time, when her arm makes contact, he doesn't brush it off. Trying to meet his gaze, she tries again. "Are you OK?"

"What…? Why…?" There is nothing but confusion in his eyes. But at least it's more than the dead look he gave her when his pupils were the size of a pin.

Molly gives him a small, encouraging smile. "What?"

"Why are you here?"

The question is so soft, so timid, she has to strain to hear him. Glancing down, she spies his heavy Belstaff, and latches on to the excuse it provides. "Your coat."

"But... But what I said…" There is so much confusion in his eyes that it gives her pause. She knows he has family, but the look he is currently giving her makes her wonder just how much contact he actually has with them. Because the eyes of the man sitting on the ground before her are those of a lost and hurt little boy, used to being abandoned; used to being alone in the world.

"It's OK."

He shakes his head. "It's not OK."

"I forgive you."

"You… why?"

(Because she is Molly Hooper. And he is Sherlock Holmes. And she will not be another reason for the look of hopelessness in his eyes. It is a promise she makes in that moment, one that she does not yet know will be the hardest promise to keep. But she is Molly Hooper. And she keeps her promises.)

"Because." When she sees he still needs more, she gives him a small smile. Just the barest quirk of her lips. "You're my friend."

He is silent for a moment, eyes downcast. Just as she begins to feel to need to move as her legs begin to cramp from the way she is knelt over him, he raises his gaze. The need and despair in them makes her catch her breath. "Molly? I think I need some help."

"What do you need?"

Without meeting her eyes, he slowly rolls up the right sleeve of the dressing gown. The pyjamas he has on underneath are fashioned with short sleeves, and so his arm is bared.

And she sees his truth.

The veins of his arm are bruised. Puncture marks litter the length of his arm. She knows, without looking, his other arm must be in a similar state, if not worse. (He is right handed, after all. What state must his left arm be in for him to start on his right?) Still unable (unwilling?) to meet her gaze, his answer is the smallest mumble, but it still makes her eyes sting.

"You."

* * *

She checks him into rehab. It is the first time he makes it through without attempting to break out of the place once. And, after the obligatory three month stay, she smiles when he tells her he's decided to stay in one more. Just to be sure.

When he eventually leaves the clinic, she is there to pick him up. He smiles at her (a real smile, not one of the fake ones he normally gives people. It does something to her insides that she really needs to stop, lest he decide to use it against her) and squeezes her hand once before letting his hands fall to his lap. "Thank you."

She gives him a quick smile back. "I said I'd pick you up."

He shakes his head. "Not for the lift. All of it. I…" He stops. Sighs. Looks down, before he makes sure he meets her shy gaze with one that is full of… something. Something strong and powerful and something neither of them dare to name. "Thank you."

This time her smile is softer. Warmer. "Anytime. Any time you need me Sherlock. You just need to ask."

He pauses, but when she doesn't say anything more, gives a small nod. Reaching over, he gives her hand another small squeeze. She squeezes back, before turning the engine over and starting the journey back to London.

They never speak of the moment again.

* * *

TBC

Thoughts?


	2. Ch 2: Greed

**Sherlock: A Case Study, or: The Seven Sins as experienced by Sherlock Holmes** by **chibiness87**

 **Chapter 2/7: Greed** (Or; He wants it all. The best of both worlds.)  
 **Rating: T  
Spoilers: General. Explicit spoilers for S1.03 – The Great Game. **

**Disclaimer: Sherlock belongs to other, much more talented people than me.**

 **A/N:** Thank you so much to all those who have read and commented and followed and favourited this story. (Yes, I know favourited is not a word. Sue me. (Or, y'know, please don't.)) Also, it has been pointed out to me in the past that I have a bit of a thing for parentheses. (I would say I'm sorry, but I'd be lying.)

* * *

I want it all  
I want it all  
I want it all  
And I want it now  
\- I want it all, Queen

* * *

Sherlock Holmes has never been one to share well with others.

(He's a little bit selfish like that.)

Having an older brother who saw you as nothing more than an inconvenience and left you alone while your parents thought you were being watched by him will do that to your development. His parents tried, he knows they tried, but children his age were just so incredibly boring and slow; he never did get on with any of them.

He liked his dog, though. Redbeard always understood him.

( _His_ dog, thank you very much. _His_.)

He doesn't make friends. (He doesn't _do_ friends. Sentiment is a chemical defect found on the losing side.)

Instead, he starts owning things.

A book. (More than one. In more than one language. He reads them and discards them but stores them in his mind palace. _His_ mind palace.)

A coat. (Thick. Wool. Tailored to fit him. Because it is _his._ )

A flat. (1st floor, 2 bedrooms. He can never hold down a flatmate but he doesn't really care. Sentiment is a chemical defect found on the losing side.)

And then, there are those that come into his possession by default.

A landlady come housekeeper. (He could afford to buy anything he wanted to in London. But he chooses to rent the 1st floor flat of 221 Baker Street after helping his future landlady send her drug-dealing mafia-linked dirty-cop husband to jail.)

A copper. Garry or Gavin or G-something. (He forgets his name.)

A pathologist. Molly. (He never forgets hers.)

There are others, of course. Other idiots who work at New Scotland Yard who think they are good detectives and investigators. (They're not.) He gets on their nerves, just as much as they get on his. He gets called names like weird, and psychopath, and freak. He deletes them. (He's good at deleting inconsequential details like that.)

The only detective inspector who has even got half a glimmer of hope (his opinion) is someone who spots his occasional drug habit right off the bat, but who listens to him when he explains his dealer (another possession) was actually a dirty cop.

After that case he gains access to more cases and a DI. (The condition is he stops the drugs. It seems like a win-win situation, so he does. For a while.)

The cases lead to more consulting, and consulting leads to post mortems, and post mortems invariably lead him to Molly. In a roundabout way. There is a period of adjustment for the St. Bart's team to this new arrangement. They are not used to a random person who is most definitely not a policeman no matter how much he throws the word detective around coming in like he owns the place, demanding to see victims, and telling them they got cause of death wrong. Three pathologists threaten to quit; one actually does. But Molly Hooper does not threaten to quit. Molly Hooper stays. (Molly will always stay; he just doesn't know this yet.)

The three of them come to an easy understanding of how things work. Garry or Gavin or G-something will bring him a case. The two of them will go to Bart's to examine the body. Molly will point out something he might have otherwise missed (every time. She does that _every time_ ). He solves the case. Everybody wins.

Until one day he's bored, and takes up his little drug habit again.

And doesn't stop, until Molly Hooper makes him.

She is more than just _a_ pathologist after that.

She is _his_ pathologist. (She is his saviour. She is _his_.)

From that moment on, whenever he is introducing her, it is never, 'this is Molly, a friend' (because he is still Sherlock Holmes, and he still doesn't _do_ friends), but always, 'this is Molly. My pathologist'.

The looks he gets off others, especially John, when he introduces her this way makes him think there is something wrong with the possessiveness nature of the introduction. But he is never called on it by her, and after all she is the only one with the right to protest, (everyone else will just have to grin and bear it, sod them all,) and so the moniker sticks.

By the end of his fourth year of working cases with Garry or Gavin or G-something and the Yard, he has gathered quite a collection of people. (He's a little bit selfish like that.)

 _His_ network of homeless people. They are his eyes and his ears when he needs them to be, because even the great Sherlock Holmes cannot be everywhere at once.

 _His_ DI.

 _His_ DI's incompetent co-workers who he has to put up with sometimes because they are the leads on the interesting cases. And he outright refuses to work anything that is less than a 5. It's just not worth the effort.

 _His_ blogger. (His _friend_. Or as close as he will ever get to admitting to having one.)

 _His_ blogger's romantic attachments. There are many. None of them permanent. (Sentiment is a chemical defect found on the losing side.)

 _His_ arch nemesis. It is the first time he has _hated_ another human being for the crimes they have committed. The thrill of the chase is nothing to the horror he feels of seeing John threatened, strapped to a bomb jacket against his will. He will find James Moriarty. He will find him, and he will destroy him. Because James Moriarty needs to be stopped.

But despite all of those that mean something to him, there is one that still means the most.

His pathologist.

* * *

He's not stupid, he knows what this means, what danger this puts her in. And so he does things and says things to her that make people think he is arrogant prick who doesn't care for her, not a desperately scared man who wants to keep her safe. Sentiment is a chemical defect found on the losing side, and he will _not_ lose Molly Hooper.

(He's a little bit selfish like that.)

* * *

TBC

Thoughts?


	3. ch 3: Envy

**Sherlock: A Case Study (Or; The Seven Deadly Sins, as Experienced by Sherlock Holmes)** by **chibiness87**

 **Chapter 3/7: Envy** (Or; She is not his to have. But he wants her.)  
 **Rating: T  
Spoilers: **General. Explicit for s.2.01 – A Scandal in Belgravia

 **Disclaimer** : Sherlock belongs to other, much more talented people than me.

 **A/N** : So I was actually going to wait until tomorrow to post this, but then realised how busy tomorrow actually is and that I might not get a chance, and I didn't want to make y'all wait until the weekend. Much love to all those taking the time to leave reviews, even those that I can't respond to personally.

* * *

AJ: I got to tell her...you know, I got to tell her that I, uh, well, you know, that I uh...  
Joe: Love her.  
AJ: Yeah. Now how do I do that?  
Joe: You say _I love you_. What do you want, written instructions?  
– Empire Records.

* * *

The party is his idea of hell.

It's worse than a tediously boring case worth only a 2.

Scrap that.

It's worse than a 1.

But John is excited about it, and he's feeling in a somewhat apathy mood, (and, truthfully, he wasn't really listening when John was talking about the planning and so found himself agreeing to something he really doesn't want to partake in. But apparently it's now too late to do anything about it,) and so he sits in his chair with John's laptop, and searches for cases that might mean he can escape this circle of hell masquerading as his living room full of people (broods), while the rest of the flat is filled with chatter and smiles and _merriment_.

Ugh.

He hates this. He hates the whole _idea_ of this.

He really should start paying John more attention when he speaks, if only to prevent _this_ from ever, _ever_ happening again. And then, as if this wasn't bad enough, somehow he finds himself participating and playing Christmas carols on his violin like some kind of performing monkey.

He really doesn't see how this party could get much worse than it currently is.

And then it does.

Of course it does.

(This is why he should never tempt fate. Fate will always win.)

Because Dante created circles of hell for a reason, and his deepest circle of hell has just walked through the door. (He's lying. Of course he's lying. But to admit the truth would be to admit sentiment, and sentiment is a chemical defect found on the losing side, and that will never happen. Not with him.)

* * *

She is dressed up.

It is the first thing he notices (a blind man would notice!) and he hates the way his body betrays him by the rush of adrenaline through his system.

He can see the effort that has gone into her outfit, knows the time it has taken for her to get her hair to fall _just so_. The dress she has chosen should be illegal, hugging her in such a way that he can barely breathe. His own shirt suddenly feels tight, constricting. He breathes in deeply, trying to get some much needed air into his lungs, and he knows immediately this was a mistake, because she has just walked past him and so he gets overwhelmed with a mix of her natural scent, the coconut body wash she favours, and the spice of a new perfume.

He wants a nicotine patch. Maybe three.

Scrap that.

He wants a cigarette. Maybe ten.

(He wants a hit of cocaine.

Maybe even heroin.)

He wants to be anywhere other than here, with Molly Hooper looking and smelling like, well, _that._

She is stunning.

Dear god, but she is breath-taking.

His mind takes him back to a previous time, a previous life. A life with no John, no George or Graham or G-something, no flat filled with _people_. A life where there was just high after high, burying the pain and the hurt in the wildness, until someone didn't back down from him. A time where it is just her and him, sitting in a car, him holding her hand like it is the last lifeline he has, and the underlying knowledge of the _something_ they can't, won't, name. ("You'll get through this. I have faith in you. And when you're ready I'll come and pick you up. You can do this. _I believe in Sherlock Holmes._ ")

Instead, he is faced with a reality of George or Graham or G-something looking at _his pathologist_ (his _Molly_ ) in a way that makes him see red. (Or is it green?)

He feels the tight tenure of his control snap, and he lashes out. He can't help it.

A part of his mind rallies against him, hearing him as if from afar, even as his mouth starts and then keeps going and going and going and going and…

 _Dearest Sherlock. Love Molly. XOXO_

Oh.

 _Oh._

 _It's for him. It's all for_ him _. The dress and the hair and the make-up and…_

(The car and the hand and the look at the _something_ they don't name. It's there. Still.)

He cuts himself off suddenly, both inner and outer monologue shut off like a tap, the deductions he had just spouted coming into a context so sharp and new he doesn't know what to do. What to say. How can he rescue the situation from the mess he knows it is in? He is suddenly very aware of the quiet, the _silence_ in the room.

Molly is standing before him, tears in her eyes, which she refuses to let slip. (Of the two of them, she was always the strong one.)

What has he done?

"I…"

"You always say such horrible things. Every time. Always. Always."

 _ **Dearest**_ _Sherlock._ _ **Love**_ _Molly._

"I am sorry. Forgive me."

He needs, more than anything, more than the buzz of a chase or the drugs or the highs, he needs her forgiveness. Her needs her _faith_. He needs _her._

He wants to fall to the floor at her feet. Reach out and hold her to him and beg her not to leave him. Not her too. Please, god, not her too. Bending slightly, he bestows the softest brush of his lips against her cheek he can manage, gossamer soft. It's all the contact he gives himself permission of, unwilling to taint her with his mere being, certain he will fall apart if he does more.

"Merry Christmas, Molly Hooper."

It is not much of an apology, nowhere near enough of what she deserves, but it is all he can do, right now in this moment, struck down by his own jealously. (Of himself. Christ, how could he have been so blind as to have missed the obvious?)

(They don't _talk_ about it. But that doesn't mean they don't _feel_ it.)

He thinks he might just be able to get through this, when his phone lets out _her_ message tone. And then, in true real life fashion, everything goes and gets a bit fucked up.

* * *

Later, he knows he hurts Molly ( _again_ ) when he asks to see the rest of the body lying naked on the slab. Knows it cannot look good when he says, "It's her," after the reveal. But if Irene Adler needs him to hold her secrets, he will do so. There is a bigger picture involved, one he isn't sure how he fits in to yet.

It will take a swan dive off a hospital roof with Molly's help (because, despite everything she thinks he is, everything _he_ thinks he is, Molly _always_ helps), and two years on the run tearing a criminal mastermind's network down before he will begin see the bigger picture (but not the whole picture, not yet) for what it really is.

* * *

TBC

Thoughts?


	4. Ch 4: Sloth

**Sherlock: A Case Study (Or; The seven Deadly Sins, as Experienced by Sherlock Holmes)** by **chibiness87**

 **Chapter 4/7: Sloth**. (Or; He is the only one who sees her. Until he isn't.)  
 **Rating: T  
Spoilers: **General. Explicit for S3.01 The Empty Herse  
 **Disclaimer:** Sherlock belongs to other, much more talented people than me

 **A/N:** Hey all. Thanks for taking the time to stop by and read my little foray into this wonderful world I'm creating, I hope you're still enjoying it. Thanks to all those who take the time to review; and thanks to all those who don't but continue to read anyway.

* * *

The congregation's nervous  
especially bride to be  
there's three of them she'd rather have  
gone down on bended knee  
Meanwhile – The Beautiful South

* * *

It is a little known fact to all those that do not know him that Sherlock Holmes has a hero complex. He protects those that he deems to be deserving of it with all of his being.

Sometimes, the method seems cruel. Pushing away his family for years, so no one will go after them to come after him. Years later, he does the same with Molly, though he does not acknowledge this as the cause for his behaviour towards her. (She needs to stay pure, even though everything he touches, everything he is, is tainted. She will not suffer because of him. It is the only way he knows to keep her _safe_.)

Sometimes, he makes a deal with a devil, and throws himself off a building as penance.

(It is not a suicide.

It is a sacrifice.)

* * *

Once upon a time, a boy met a girl, and they fell in love. And though they never spoke it, both knew it to be true, and they each promised themselves _one day._ But then the boy was sent away on a quest, leaving the girl behind, and the girl despaired. For she was certain she would never feel the love of the boy again. Many months passed, and each day the girl would wake up, and would miss the boy, but the pain of their separation would fade a little more, and the love she felt for the boy would ache a little less. It was still there (it would _always_ be there) but the girl knew that the _one day_ she had promised herself could not be. And so, when the girl met a new boy, and the new boy fell in love with the girl, and then asked the girl to marry him, the girl said yes. For she saw a life she could be happy with, and she deserves to be happy. She thinks the boy would be proud.

Because even though the girl still loved the boy, (would always, _always_ love the boy,) life is not a fairy-tale.

* * *

Sherlock has been _gone_ for eleven months, four days, six hours and three minutes when she is first introduced to Tom. (Not that she's counting.) They meet at a mutual friend's birthday party in a cheap pub on a Tuesday evening after she has spent seven hours doing post mortems on a family who died in a car crash.

To say her mood was sour would be an understatement. The mere thought of attending the party had been a draining one, but she had begged off the last gathering, and the one before that. She needed to at least show face at this one, even if it was the last thing she wanted. (Sherlock would have known what she needed. A hot soak and a mug of tea and a shoulder to lean on while she ranted at the unfairness of it all. (It wouldn't have been the first time, either.) But Sherlock was gone.)

Sometimes, she thinks she hates that she is one of the few people in the world who know the truth about how alive he is. Mourning the death of someone who hasn't died is worse than mourning that of someone who has. The pretence itself is so much of a burden she has not seen John in months. She cannot bear to face Sherlock's best friend and lie when he asks how she's coping after losing him. (Because she has lost him, just not in the same way.) Sometimes she wonders how Sherlock could do that to him, to _her_.

(Sometimes, she thinks she will kill him if he ever thinks of doing something like this and _not_ tell her. Because as much as John, as much as _any_ of them are hurting, she knows she would be so much worse. It is the burden that loving him brings. It is a burden she gladly bears.)

She leaves the party forty minutes after she arrives, and doesn't think of the nice man who bought her a drink until the next group outing three weeks later when he's there and does it again. And then again a week after that. She gets his number this time, and they make plans to go for a meal the following week.

And it's, well, nice.

It's nice, and normal, and they kiss at the end of the meal and the world doesn't end, and she finds a band around her chest she didn't know was there loosen slightly.

By the time they've been dating for a few months, and she's met his parents, and they've gotten to a point in the bedroom where the sex is no longer awkward and new, she finds she is less worried about Sherlock than she has been in years.

It is _exhilarating_.

So when Tom stops her on a Tuesday night as she is grabbing her coat to leave the pub (the same cheap pub they met in all those months ago) and drops to a knee and asks her to be _his_ , she says yes.

The weight of the ring is still new to her when she opens the door to her locker two weeks later and sees _him_ standing there.

Her heart stutters. (It doesn't. It's impossible for a heart to stutter. But, oh, it does.) And then it races when he smiles _that smile_ at her. She keeps her left hand hidden as much as she can as he approaches as pulls her in to a hug.

"Are you…"

"Home. I'm home."

A few days later, she is startled by a text from him, asking her to see him at Baker Street. (It always makes her smile a little with the way he signs his texts with his initials. Like she doesn't know it's him texting from his phone. (Like anyone else would ever be able to get the thing out of his hand long enough to type and send a text.) Honestly, sometimes that man is truly brilliant. Sometimes, he's just an idiot.)

But she loves him just the same.

Oh.

 _Loves him._

Oh, fucking hell.

Tom.

She has Tom now. Tom who is nice, and reliable, and friendly, and has a dog, and nice parents, and who doesn't keep body parts in the fridge. Tom, whom she agreed to marry.

She loves Tom.

She does.

(It's just, her heart has always belonged to Sherlock first.)

She decides to treat the day with him as a test, and when they get through it and it isn't the end of the world, (awkward solve crimes/have dinner conversation aside,) she thinks she might just be able to marry Tom and handle having Sherlock in her life too.

And then Sherlock goes and pulls the rug out from under her.

"Moriarty slipped up. He made a mistake. Because the one person he thought didn't matter at all to me was the one person that mattered the most. You made it all possible."

There is an awe in his voice and in his eyes, like he's just figured out a problem that has been bugging him for months. It is a look she has seen on his face when looking at her only twice before. She knows what it means, of course she does. Even if she didn't his words have all but confirmed it.

(He might as well have taken a full page ad out in the Evening Standard: Sherlock Holmes loves Molly Hooper.)

She knows what she has to do, and oh, it hurts, but she needs to do this.

It is the only way she knows to save him.

He takes the subtle hint of her engagement in stride, and it is both a blessing and a curse.

The kiss he bestows on her cheek burns. A hint of what could have been.

And then he's leaving, joking about at least she's not fallen for a sociopath, and she stares at his retreating back. The weight of the ring on her finger is heavy, the weight on her soul even more so. She feels like she is betraying him. (Betraying who? Sherlock? Tom? She's not sure.)

Sherlock wishes her happiness, and she only wants it with him. (What sort of person does that, anyway?) Resigned, she follows him out of the door. "Maybe that's just my type."

* * *

She will never tell him she hears him muttering to himself as she follows him quicker than he evidently thought she would.

"Stupid. So stupid. I always miss something. Of course she's moved on. I told her to move on. I should have…"

She'll never know what he should have done; his hearing picking up her footsteps has him cutting himself off. Instead she is greeted with a smile (his fake smile, her heart notices) and a repeat offer of chips. She cannot bear to hurt him more than she has done though, so she begs off.

* * *

It is only many months later, when she has broken the engagement off and handed Tom the ring back, that she wonders what would have happened had she taken Sherlock up on his offer that night. Because he would not have been home to save John. But then, welling on the "what might have been" scenarios never gets her anywhere. What's done is done. Life goes on.

It always does.

* * *

TBC

Thoughts?


	5. Ch 5: Lust

**Sherlock: A Case Study (Or; The Seven Deadly Sins, as Experienced by Sherlock Holmes)** by **chibiness87**

 **Chapter 5/7: Lust** (Or; To have and to hold. But only from afar.)  
 **Rating : T  
Spoilers: **General. Set between 3.01 The Empty Herse and 3.02 The Sign of Three  
 **Disclaimer:** Sherlock belongs to other, much more talented people than me

 **A/N:** Two updates in two days! Thanks to all those who continue to read.

* * *

My eyes went 'ooh'  
My heart just cooed  
My mind let loose  
I'll stay forever, it's up to you  
\- Doctor Wanna Do, Caro Emerald

* * *

He has been back in the land of the living for six weeks when he comes out of his bedroom and finds it, (no, not it, _her_ ,) perched on the end of his dining room table. Hard to miss, really, what with the way the light is pooling, highlighting every edge and curve to his deep gaze.

John, sitting in his normal chair, updating his blog, looks up at the sound of Sherlock's voice as he takes in the sight laid out before him.

"She is beautiful."

She is, but it is more than that. She is stunning. Magnificent.

It is all he can do not to run over like an excited child faced with unprecedented levels of sugar, and pull away the layers, one by one, to see what is hidden underneath.

Approaching the table, he lets his hands reach forward, reverently caressing the eye piece, testing the smoothness of the glide between the magnifying lenses. The amount of detail, the smoothness of the stage, the quality of the brass.

(Is this what love feels like?)

Turing, he sees John has moved to stand behind him, a small glint in his eye. "Jesus, John, how much did this _cost_?"

"No idea."

The snort of amusement rattles him. He's missed something.

"What?"

"It's not from me. Though, if I knew it would shut you up for more than five seconds, I would have bought you one a long time ago."

"What?"

John shakes his head. "You've been staring at it for the past ten minutes, mate."

Watching as he takes a seat once more, Sherlock sighs, "No, not that. _Do_ keep up, John."

The mutter is almost quiet enough for Sherlock to miss. Almost. "And he's back."

"If you didn't purchase this, then who…" His mind starts ticking through people who would go to these extremes, in time, money, and effort, to purchase such an elegant piece. His first thought is Molly (his first thought is always Molly), but it is far too expensive, and anyway, she has someone now. (Someone not him. He doesn't want to dwell on the pain that thought causes. Sentiment is a chemical defect found on the losing side.) John has already stated it is not from him, and Mycroft is out of the question. While his parents may have been a choice, the fact they knew he was alive all this time and that they have never bought him anything like this rules them out. Grant or Gordon or G-something wouldn't have done something like this either, nor anyone else at the Yard, and Mrs Hudson has always detested him using the kitchen for experiments. So that only leaves… someone who would cause him harm. He backs away in horror. "It must be destroyed."

"Whoa. What?" John looks up, clearly startled by this new development after several moments of quiet.

But Sherlock's mind is in overdrive. "It's a trap. It's not safe. We have to…"

"Oh, bloody hell. It's not a trap, you wanker. It's a gift."

"A…Gift." He tries the word out like it has offended him. He does not get gifts; not like this. (He gets mad men and sociopaths and psychopaths and mysteries. He does not get gleaming, state of the art, brand new microscopes.)

"Yes. Gift. You know, what you buy for other people?" There is a look on John's face that says he is being incredibly stupid.

He's not. He's just confused. "But… But it's not my birthday. Or Christmas. Or any other tedious occasion used as an excuse to purchase sentimental items for others."

"Are you kidding me?" John sighs. "Sherlock, are you kidding me right now?"

Sherlock shakes his head. Clearly, there is something he is missing, but he is at a loss to what it is. "I have no idea what you are talking about."

Now John is looking concerned. Like Sherlock has missed out on some sort of life defining event. (It wouldn't be the first time.) "No one has ever bought you a gift just because, without prior warning?"

"No." And now he is curious. Is this what John was talking about? "Why? Has someone done that for you?"

"Of course they have. But when it has been a date special to me, not one that greeting cards say."

"Explain."

John sighs. Again. It's beginning to get annoying. But he has only recently gotten his blogger (friend) back, and knows enough not to offend him. (He doesn't want to get punched again.) "They don't exactly make 'happy anniversary of being shot in the leg so you had to leave the army' cards, do they?"

"No…" There is an illogicality of that which even Sherlock knows not to address.

"Well then." John waves his hand around like it explains the situation.

It doesn't.

He shakes his head. "Nope. Still don't get it."

"Sherlock," John pauses, before meeting his eye, a curious gleam in them, "can you seriously stand there and tell me you cannot think of anything that has happened to you in your life that would mean someone would want to spend some serious amount of cash on you at this particular time of year?"

And suddenly, he knows.

 _The car and the smile and the handholding and the_ something _…_

She always remembers.

Even when he forgets.

 _Oh._

"Oh."

John is right. While there are plenty of cards for birthdays and anniversaries and, dear god, _Easter_ (and since when has _that_ been a thing?!), there is no card that can accurately say 'you made it through another year of not injecting any illegal drugs into your veins, and I am so very thankful for that'.

There are, however, microscopes.

(Even now, he still underestimates her. The thought is soothing. Humbling. Maybe, maybe he hasn't completely lost her, after all.)

Pulling his phone from his pocket, he texts her.

 _I received my gift. – SH._

Her reply is almost instant. (Had she been waiting for him to find it?)

 _You're welcome_. (There is no signature. No matter how many times he tells her to write her initial after her message, just to prove it is her sending it, she refuses. It's oddly endearing. Not that he will ever tell her that.)

 _While I will certainly find a use for it, I find myself confused. – SH_

 _About what?_

Sherlock pauses, glancing over to his gift once more. He knows microscopes are not cheap. And this is a wonderful model. And she has a wedding to plan and pay for.

 _This must have cost you a considerable amount of money; money I find in excess to what you could afford. – SH_

The moment he sends it, he knows the way it is written is a bit _not good_. He sends another immediately, not wanting her to be offended by his inappropriate wording.

 _My apologies. I meant, that I am worth. – SH_

There is a delay of two minutes and twenty eight seconds before her next message comes in. (Not that he's counting.)

 _You're worth it._

He stares at the words on his screen, unable to think of a coherent reply. What does one say to such a bald a statement as that anyway? Before he can think of the right way to phrase what he knows he needs to explain, his phone lights up again with anther incoming text.

 _Sherlock? Just say thank you._

He snaps his phone shut off, ignoring the following buzz of another incoming text. Grabbing his coat off the hook, he avoids John even as he calls out "Whoa. Hold up, where are you going _now_?"

"Out."

* * *

He storms through the doors to Bart's morgue like he owns it.

(Hell, with the way Mycroft has been lately, maybe he does.)

"Sherlock?"

Molly stands, leaving the pile of paperwork she had been working on sitting on her desk. He spots her hand sliding her phone into her pocket, no longer waiting for his reply.

He strides across the room, drinking in the sight of her, feeling his heart stutter. (It doesn't. It's impossible for hearts to stutter. But oh, it does.)

"You…" He still hasn't quite worked out what he wants to say to her. The overhead light catches the diamond of her ring, and he stops. He is standing in front of her, so close she has to tilt her head back slightly to be able to meet his eyes. There is a question in them he doesn't, won't answer. Can't answer.

Not when she is promised to another.

So instead, he only offers a quiet, "Thank you."

He tilts his head down, and, like so many times before, presses his lips to her cheek.

She gives a small, embarrassed smile.

"Yes, well." She tilts her head down for a moment, but when she lifts it and finds his gaze with hers, he is shocked by the emotion welling deep in their depths. "Welcome back, Sherlock Holmes."

* * *

TBC

Thoughts?


	6. Ch 6: Gluttony

**Sherlock: A Case Study (Or; the Seven Deadly Sins, as Experienced by Sherlock Holmes** by **chibiness87**

 **Chapter 6/7: Gluttony** (Or; When his wants and needs are too close to call)  
 **Rating: T  
Spoilers: **General. Explicit for 3.03 His Last Vow through to 4.02 The Lying Detective. Slight hint of 4.03 The Final Problem too. (Y'know what, let's just say everything at this point!)  
 **Disclaimer:** Sherlock belongs to other, much more talented people than me.

 **A/N:** Thank you to all those that are continuing to read these. On the home stretch now, just one last chapter after this one.

* * *

Ashes to ashes, funk to funky  
we know Major Tom's a junkie  
Ashes to ashes – David Bowie

* * *

He made a promise to her once. A promise that he would never do this again.

Sitting in a car in a parking lot after four months of rehab and he is finally, finally sober (not just off the drugs, but _cleansed_ ), he had looked across the centre console to the only person (friend) he had left in the world, and made a silent vow. He would never, _never_ put Molly Hooper in this position ever again.

He has made it over six years without going near a needle, but then this case (this _excuse_ ) happened, and suddenly it was all for nought.

He can still feel the sting of her palms across his cheeks (sans engagement ring; something in him is far too happy about that to be safe) as she took her anger and disappointment (and fear, god the fear, not _of_ but _for_ him in her eyes, which made him feel sober again in about a second) out on his skin. But the sting was nothing to the punch to the stomach sensation he had when he caught sight of the brass microscope, sitting innocently on his kitchen table, when he popped round to his flat later to get a change of clothing before heading out to search Magnussen's office.

The demand of an apology she made was as much for her as it was for John, this much he knows. He needs to make it up to her. He plans to take her out, treat her right for once. Damn those who would see she is his true weakness. Just this once, he wants her to know his truth. But before he has a chance, he's being shot in the chest, by _Mary_ of all people, and then a discharge (escape) from hospital and then internal bleeding and a re-admittance to hospital and then a break up with a fake girlfriend who took her revenge in the papers and then getting over the drugs _(again)_ and then helping his blogger (his friend) through the revelation of his wife's involvement in his recent health issues and then a trip to Magnussen's mansion and then a kill shot to the head.

All in all, not much time to make an honest apology, really.

And _then_ , because apparently killing a man in cold blood (no matter how much he deserved to die) was a little bit _not good_ , his brother, his _brother_ , decides the best thing for him is to put him into solitary confinement for a week before sending him on a six month suicide mission.

(They can dress it up as undercover government work all they like.

He's Sherlock Holmes. He's not stupid.)

After thirteen hours alone with no contact, he gets a visitor. (By visitor, he means a guard appears for two minutes. It's enough time to bribe him to get him some seriously strong pain medication. Anything opiate related would do.) He takes something on the first day to take the edge off.

On the second day, he has run out of the medication that was supposed to have lasted him all week, so he bribes a second guard to get some more. Something stronger. It's for the pain; didn't they know he's been shot in the chest recently? What do you mean it was months ago, it still hurts. He takes some more on the third day _for the pain_. That's what he tells anyone who asks. Including himself. He doesn't admit to anyone it's to quiet his brain.

By the end of the fourth day, he has secured a supply of more drugs. More painkillers. A bit of methadone (it's still not heroin, but desperate times and all that). Men will do anything for money. The drugs are stronger than before, and the quiet the methadone brings is what he needs. And then he takes some more on the fifth day because he has _missed_ this feeling. This _silence_.

This time the supply comes in before he has even had to ask. He takes some more on the sixth day because it just feels so fucking _good_.

And then he takes some _more_ on the sixth day and the seventh day and on the way to the airport because the only person who could (would) stop him isn't here and he didn't get to say goodbye and he's never going to see her again and god, the mere _thought_ of that is splitting him in two.

(It will take a psychotic sister for him to realise what that actually means, but that's a story for another time.)

He is just beginning to slip into a gentle haze of true apathy when his phone rings, and he is being summoned back to sort out a message his arch nemesis has sent from beyond the grave.

But his drug level is so high it is easy for him to slip back into a world of silence and logic and history, so when he lands he knows Moriarty isn't back. He shot himself in the head. Blew his brains out over the roof of St. Bart's. There is no possible way of coming back from that.

* * *

The unfortunate problem of being Sherlock Holmes is being related to Mycroft Holmes. And Mycroft Holmes can see through his drug level BS like no one else can, (except Molly. Because she can see though everything,) and therefore knows just how high he is.

It is a small miracle, then, that she is not the first person Mycroft calls when his feet are back on the tarmac. Instead, he is given a list of rehab centres, and told to call one.

He means to; he does. But there is a case to solve first and then there is Baby Watson and then there is Mary jumping in front of a bullet to save him and then there is blood (oh god, there is so much _blood_ ) and then John is angry (so, very, very angry) and then there is a message his blogger's (best friend's) wife has sent from beyond the grave telling him to go to hell.

There is probably another way to go there, but the case (the _excuse_ ) is just what he needs at the time to just get away from it all. Just for a little while.

When Molly shows up with the ambulance like he knew ( _hoped_ , god did he _hope_ ) she would, he is almost broken by the anger and pain and fear in her face when confronted by his sorry self.

Because he is sorry.

He is so, very, very sorry.

He just can't say the words.

They are the hardest words to say.

(Except, as it turns out, they're not. But that's a story for another time.)

* * *

In the end, it all works out (mostly). On the up side, he doesn't die and a serial killer is caught and John is speaking to him again. The downside is Molly is still completely pissed at him. But given he has tested her trust and faith in him far more times in the past year than he dares to think about, he knows she's entitled. It just hurts a little (a lot). But he won't go back on the drugs, not this time.

He won't ever hurt her with drugs again.

This he promises her.

* * *

TBC

Thoughts?


	7. Ch 7: Wrath

**Sherlock: A Case Study (Or; The Seven Deadly Sins, as Experienced by Sherlock Holmes** by **chibiness87**

 **Chapter 7/7: Wrath** (Or; When his emotions know no bounds)  
 **Rating: T  
Spoilers:** General. Explicit for 4.03 The Final Problem  
 **Disclaimer:** Sherlock belongs to other, much more talented people than me

 **A/N:** So here we are folks; the end of this little saga. (I hate endings. I can never get them to sound... right. But I've re-written the ending of this piece about nine times now, and if I do any more I think I might just go insane.) Thank you for your continued support, it means a lot.

* * *

I don't want to feel  
what everybody feels  
I've got more to lose  
– Everybody wants a little something; Duke Special

* * *

Since he was about six years old, Sherlock Holmes has learnt to keep a tight lid on his emotions. It starts with the death of his best friend in the whole world (but he doesn't know how much he has repressed everything until years later), and is a skill he hones. He needs to. Sentiment is chemical defect found on the losing side. So he locks his feelings deep down in his mind palace, away from anyone who means him harm.

He is good at it too. Even Magnussen got it wrong when assessing his trigger points. Everyone thinks they know where his weaknesses lie.

He is the only one who knows the truth.

At least, he thought he was.

Apparently his sister knows too.

But then, she was always the smart one. Apparently.

* * *

The sight of Molly on the screen floods him with worry and dread and anger.

She is in her flat, and he can _see_ her. (There is a part of him that immediately goes into analytical mode. Cameras. Multiple. Obviously small so as to be unobtrusive. He'll need to do something about those.)

The gauntlet thrown down to him is almost background noise, as he watches her move through her tea making routine. There is something in the way she is moving that tells him she is not in a good place right now. He wants, more than anything, to go to her and comfort her and make sure she's OK.

The first thing he is going to do when he gets out of this godforsaken hellhole is to go round to Molly Hooper's flat and tear the place apart until he knows there are no more cameras, no more _spying_ ; rip anything suspicious out of the walls until he knows she is safe.

The first thing he is going to do when he gets out of this godforsaken hellhole is to move as far away from Molly Hooper as he possibly can, because now they know what he weakness is, it is the only thing he can think of to keep her safe.

(She will never be safe with him.)

The first thing he is going to do when he gets out of this godforsaken hellhole is find Molly Hooper, hold her tight, and never let her go, ever again.

But first, he needs to get out of this godforsaken hellhole.

And to do that he has to be the cruelest he has ever been to her in his life. He has to break her faith in him.

He has to break her heart.

(And his, though he doesn't know it at the time.)

And then _it_ (the torture, the _vivisection_ ) is over, and the screen goes black, and he is left with the voice of his sister's (his _sister's_ ) taunts in his mind, and the image of Molly, (dear, sweet, heartbroken Molly, whose only crime in the whole world was to fall in love with him,) etched into his brain.

On autopilot, he picks up the lid of the coffin, places it gently on the base. His hand smooths over the wood, his eyes drinking in the brass plate.

I LOVE YOU

It comes to him in a blinding moment of clarity. This test, this _experiment_ , was not about Molly. It was _never_ about Molly.

This whole day has been about him.

About testing (tormenting) _him_.

If this indeed was a coffin meant for Molly Hooper, it only follows that the brass plate is meant for him.

The question John and Mycroft should have asked was never, _Who loves you, Sherlock Holmes?_

It was always, _Whom does Sherlock Holmes love?_

Emotional context; that is what he was being shown in this room. It is why he jumped through all the hoops his sister threw at him.

It was the only way he could save Molly Hooper.

And he will always, _always_ save Molly Hooper.

He feels an anger unlike any he has ever felt before rush up through his veins. It is more powerful than when he first found out who Moriarty was. More powerful than when John was almost being burnt alive in a bonfire. More powerful than the revelation of having a sister.

Molly Hooper could have died today.

He brings his fist down on the coffin lid with all his might. The wood splinters apart beneath his torment, no match for the anger and the shame and the pain coursing through his veins like a new drug.

It is more than pain.

It is evisceration.

* * *

Later, when he has found John and rescued him from his childhood friend's watery grave, when he has given his statement to Greg, when Eurus had been escorted into care, after all of that, he still feels the abrasions of the splinters that litter his hands.

There is only one person who he wants to see.

(There is only ever one person he wants to see.)

He grabs a lift back to London in one of the squad cars.

* * *

He knows she is at work (even after what he has done he knows she won't let Stamford down; she's far too selfless for that), but does not go there. Instead, he sits in the hallway outside her flat, waiting for her to come home.

When he sees her, sees her see him and turn around to get away from him, something deep within him breaks.

"Molly." He scrambles to his feet, his legs numb from the amount of time he has spent sitting on the cold concrete. "Wait." Feebly, he throws out a hand to stop her retreat, his words coming out so quickly they almost trip over each other. "I just came to tell you I'm leaving."

That, at least, stops her, and she turns around. His heart aches slightly at the look on her face. He's too tired, too emotionally drawn out to try to deduce what the look in her eyes mean. "You're… what?"

"I'm leaving." He tells her doorstep, unable to meet her gaze. "I just…." He shrugs, and finally meets her confused eyes with his own tired and drawn face. "I needed to see you. To make sure. And I didn't want to go without telling you first."

He knows he's not making any sense. But there is a pressure on his chest that is making breathing difficult right now, never mind actually forming words, sentences.

"Sherlock…" She sighs, before stepping around him (so close it feels like she's stepping through him) and opening her door. When she doesn't immediately slam it in his face, he risks looking in her direction. She is standing, leaning on the door as if using it to prop her up, and he immediately feels like an arse.

"Come in." He does so, sinking onto her sofa when she points to it. There is a moment of surreal normality as she goes about fixing them both a coffee, and he sits in silence until he has a steaming mug held between his hands.

"Explain."

He draws in a deep breath; lets it out slowly. "It's the only way. Don't you see?"

She sighs, joining him on the sofa, placing her untouched mug on the coffee table in front of them. She is both too close and not close enough. "Not really. What…?"

He can't look at her. Instead, his eyes stay trained to the mug of coffee held in his hand. "I have to keep you safe. That's why I… And I can't…"

He trails off, unable to find the words.

"I don't…"

The timid tone to her voice makes something in him catch. Turing back to her, he catches her eyes with his intense stare. He needs her to see his truth in his next words. "I thought you were going to die today. Because of me. Going to have your flat explode around you."

He sets his mug of half-drunk coffee down on the table next to hers, before reaching over and grasping on of her small hands in his. "And there was nothing I could do. Nothing, except play her game." He sighs. Looks away for a moment, before meeting her gaze once more. She deserves the truth.

"You…" he pauses. Tries again. "You deserve… And I can't…." His free hand waves around his head, trying to show her what he means, even if he doesn't know what that is. "So I'm leaving."

She pulls her hand away, and he feels his heart cry out in despair. "But…"

She is reaching for him with both hands, he realises dully. It wasn't a pull away, but a reposition to pull towards. It's too much. He can't allow it. "No, Molly, don't. I'm doing it for you."

(Doesn't she see that this, that all of this, is tearing him apart?)

"I don't…"

He can't meet her gaze any more. His voice has become softer, almost a whisper. "You'll be better off this way. Safer."

There is a catch in her voice that makes him look at her. Tears are brewing in her eyes, one traitorous drop beginning to crest over her cheek. She has never been more beautiful. "What if I don't want you to go?"

His own voice stutters over her name. It is all he can manage. "Molly."

"What if…"

She is still defiant in her gaze. It's too much for him, and he breaks. "You can't die because of me!"

She gasps. "Sherlock…"

"No." He pulls his arm free of her grasp, turning instead to hold her head, cradling it gently between his palms. "No, I won't let you. You are…" he pauses, looks down, takes a deep breath before meeting her eyes earnestly once more. "You are the _only_ good part of me that's left in this world. And I won't let _anyone_ destroy it. Least of all me."

The tears she has been trying to hold back have won, and they glide soundlessly over the crest of her cheeks and his fingers in earnest. "Don't _I_ get a say in this?"

"Molly…"

"No. NO!" She pushes his hands away from her face, swiping at the tears that, even now, continue to fall. "You don't get to… to _say_ that to me and _leave_." Her hands come up to his face, fingers stroking over the stubble forming on his chin. "Why would you _do_ that? Why would you…"

There are tears in his own eyes now. Today has just been too much, and he cannot keep his emotions in check. Not anymore. "You _know_ why." He pushes her hand down, but she is stubborn, and doesn't let him escape. He sighs, knowing after everything, everything he has ever done, she deserves this one truth. "You've _always_ known. Ever since that day in the car. I looked at you, and you _saw_ me. You saw my deepest, darkest secret."

"I…"

"And I tried. I tried _so_ hard. But I can't anymore. You want to know why? It's because I _love_ you, Molly. I have _always_ loved you."

There is silence for a moment, his declaration echoing loudly in his mind. It is only the second time he has admitted to loving someone out loud. Both have been today, both have been to her.

He thinks back over all the years he has known her. All the times she was there, standing with him, defiant against the world and never asking for anything in return. She has always been the strong one, who has chosen to love him unconditionally. How could he do anything but love her in return? (And oh, it hurts. _It hurts._ Is this what it feels like to be on the losing side? Why would anyone _want_ this pain? This _agony_?)

"Sherlock…"

He slides to his knee of the floor in front of her. "Forgive me. Please, Molly, please, forgive me. For everything. I don't deserve it. I know I don't deserve it. Just please. This one last time. Forgive me. Forgive me forgive me forgive me…"

Eventually, he feels her hand as it strokes through his matted hair, her voice trying to soothe him. "Shhh."

He risks a glance up, and is met by her clear gaze. His voice chokes over her name once more. "Molly…"

"Hush. I will always forgive you anything." She gives him a small timid smile, before it falls and her face becomes serious once more. "Well, maybe not anything. I'll never forgive the drugs. But anything else." And again she smiles at him.

He is utterly bemused. "Why?"

She gives a small bark of laughter, shaking her head at him slightly. "You stupid, amazing, brilliant idiot. You know why." Leaning down, she brings her mouth to his ear. Gently, reverently, she whispers, "Because I love you, too."

* * *

Later, Sherlock explains everything. And even as he talks through one of the hardest days of his life, he cannot help but love his sister, just a little.

Because she has given him the greatest gift of all.

She has given him Molly Hooper.

He has won.

Sentiment being a chemical defect of the losing side be damned.

(Oh. _That's_ why.)

* * *

End

Final thoughts?


End file.
